


Phantom of Her Heart

by lovelybluemoon



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Purple Hyacinth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christine!Lauren, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phantom!Kieran, Raoul!Dylan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelybluemoon/pseuds/lovelybluemoon
Summary: A story where the Opera Ghost really does exist.He will win the affection of a young opera singer crippled by grief, and together they will sing a story that no one can hear anywhere else.The phantom fingers of their words, actions and love will still be wrapped around each other's hearts long after their tale has concluded.The Opera ghost really existed.--Gaston Lerouxor: A 'The Phantom of the Opera' AULATEST CHAPTER UPDATE--5, 6Make sure to read in order!
Relationships: Belladona Davenport/Harvey Wood, Belladona Davenport/Tim Sake, Dylan Rosenthal & Lauren Sinclair, Hermann/Oliver March, Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White, William Hawkes/Kym Ladell
Comments: 20
Kudos: 48





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ex_Nihilo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ex_Nihilo/gifts).



Death is a cold thing.   
No one will really, truly care if you die except for those you hold dear.   
(But sometimes, not even they do.)   
You will fade away in the unstoppable, unforgiving flow of time.   
And the world will move on without you. 

\---

  
The dove-gray sky looked down on the city of Ardhalis coldly. It withheld the white sunlight, which danced above the cloud line from the crowds that flitted about below. 

Those people would never understand. 

They passed by, oblivious to the deaths of others. 

Others that they never knew existed, nor would ever know. Indifferent people would never hear her despairing cries past the glass. 

Inside a cramped, dull room of a nameless building, Lauren Sinclair’s tears fell over her father’s bony hands. A young man by the name of Dylan Rosenthal was at her side, looking on in concern but unable to bring himself to impose upon the delicate situation.   
The older man’s lips moved like the soft rustle of a moth’s wings, forming words that left only the tiniest stir in the air.   
“Lauren... my precious daughter. You must listen to me.”   
As typical deathbed moments went, her father spoke his last words, his voice faint. 

_Do you remember the nights when I would tell you the stories of the Angel of Music?_   
_When I die, my dear, I will send them to you._   
_You shall learn from them and become the greatest soprano_ _Ardhalis_ _has ever known._

_You will sing your own story._

_I love you, my precious songbird._   


Those were the only words her father had left her. And they sang in her head over and over, accompanied by a funeral march as she fell into the black sea of her never-ending grief. 

\---

  
The funeral was quiet. 

The air was laced with the low hum of murmured condolences and Lauren’s sobs. Nestled in Dylan’s arms she accepted words of sympathy from each person who had known her father.   
But they were all lies, and that saddened her even further. 

“ **I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Sinclair**.” 

These falsities rang in her ears as if the words had been her own screaming. She sought comfort in her friend’s embrace as they finally bid farewell to Mr. Sinclair’s lonely grave, seemingly left out among the dying flora and somber headstones.   
The two of them trudged along the rapidly emptying streets dejectedly as the darkening twilight sky opened up and rain began to fall.   
“We should get inside, Lauren, we wouldn’t want to catch colds,” Dylan suggested. Their coats had begun to dampen under the pouring rain, and his proposal was quite reasonable. She gave nothing but a wordless nod in response. Dylan squeezed her hand reassuringly as they headed back to the gray room that was now empty and matched the weeping heavens. 

\---

  
As they packed up their things to leave the place of Mr. Sinclair’s deathbed, Dylan sneaked furtive glances at his friend, trying to read her mood.   
He always had, exceptionally well. Today there was a bit of a fog surrounding her, and he didn’t have to be her best childhood friend to know to tread carefully. 

“Lauren, do you have somewhere to go now?” He asked, his next words waiting eagerly on the tip of his tongue. 

But to his surprise, she nodded. 

“Yes, Madame Grayson is taking me under her wing. She says she’ll send me to the Ardhalis Conservatoire. No strings attached.” 

Madame Grayson was a widower whose late husband had played benefactor for Mr. Sinclair.   
Concealing a small pang of disappointment, Dylan pushed the suitcase locks into place, dropping his gaze so that she would not probe him in return. 

“I’m sure you’ll do great. They’d be lucky to have you.” He commented, getting to his feet and straightening himself. Putting up his walls in case she sensed his sudden dismay. She didn’t need his own selfish grievances to weigh her down, especially not now. 

Lauren only sighed. 

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, but I just don’t know if I’ll do so well now that Father’s gone.” 

Unfortunately for Lauren, her suspicions were correct. Upon joining the conservatory, she began to lack the melodic finesse that she had always possessed. As if she had cast a jinx upon herself, painting the darker days lurking before her. Her voice had once carried an energy within it, one that Dylan had known well. Grief transformed her into a desolate siren, singing to the ocean of her woes while perched precariously on the rock of her remaining sanity and willpower. She would spend restless nights pacing her bedroom, leaving her voice in no reasonable condition for the next day. 

The vicious cycle continued. 

Lauren’s mind became obscured with a constant fog that consumed her grace as well as all her thoughts.   
Only her father’s words echoed clearly within the cloud every day. 

_‘You will become the greatest soprano_ _Ardhalis_ _has ever seen.’_

But how could she do that if her father didn’t send the Angel of Music to her, like he’d promised?   
Maybe she’d already encountered them but hadn’t realized it.   
Although, it didn’t seem that way. Lauren knew that if she had met them, she would have sensed some sort of connection. 

Then, mere weeks after her father’s death, came the news of another. Dylan Rosenthal had disappeared, amidst smoke, ash and flames. With broken train tracks as the only proof of his end. His last resting place, an empty casket. The spiral of deadening emotions took another drastic dive at the loss of her dear friend, and she spent the next month weeping her melodies. 

Time didn’t wait for her. 

The days continued by endlessly, Lauren’s love for singing slowly withering along with her lively passion in a remarkable resemblance of graveyard flora. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The Ardhalis Conservatoire: Based off of the Conservatoire de Paris, a school of music/dance that Christine Daae attended.  
> -The Opera Ardhalis: Based off of the Paris Opera House (Palais Garnier), the main setting of The Phantom of the Opera.  
> -The Angel of Music: A mysterious apparition in Daddy Daae's stories that shares their musical genius with musicians.
> 
> Hope y'all like it so far, I'll upload Ch. 1 soon, the guilt of procrastination is never a pleasant feeling.
> 
> This work is dedicated to Ex_Nihilo, she's the one who translated the complicated terms of service and helped me onto Ao3. She also BR's this fic and kills me with praise so thank you lots for that :)
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter!!  
> -Love, June


	2. Undertones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things aren't always as they seem.  
> There's something hidden just underneath the surface that everyone overlooks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 is up!!  
> See if you can connect the chapter title to the conversations and very last sentence, not sure if I'll do this for every chapter, but there's a chance.
> 
> Also, for those of you who have read The Phantom of the Opera*, take a look at Tristan's new last name. He and Lauren aren't related here, so I had to come up with a new one. Notice anything about it? 
> 
> *If you have read POTO and you think you know what's coming, please refrain from spoiling for others, even if it's just a theory! Well, you're free to theorize, but consider what you may or may not be spoiling carefully PLEASE! Thank you :)

**_Four years later_ **

Lauren’s cruel fate had seemed to be a permanent sentence. But where there is an illness, there is a cure. 

The gift of redemption, recompense for her suffering, would be a welcome one indeed. 

It came to her at a time with cloudy skies and hazy darkness similar to the day of her mourning. However, there was a sharp contrast in both mood and atmosphere. 

The Opera Ardhalis was filled with people that night. The manager, a Monsieur Tristan Polienne, had decided to commend his retirement with a celebration. It was meant for the retiring head of the opera house as well as his two successors, Hughes Hermann and Oliver March. A number of performances were lined up for the evening, including a farewell gala scheduled after the performances. 

The main theater rumbled with an air of anticipation, accompanied by loud chatter. Strings of conversation floated around the vast space. 

Up in one of the boxes, the Comte Phillipe Rosenthal had been gazing out upon his fellow audience before he turned to his younger brother and smiled. 

“Welcome back to society, little brother. I still can’t believe you wanted to spend your time prancing around with flowers, even after the old _tante_ raised you near the sea! It’s lucky that I have good connections here. This is the perfect way for you to return to life in Ardhalis.” 

The young viscount shrugged, a shade of disinterest painting his gray eyes. 

“I suppose so. But truth be told, I’d much rather visit the palace gardens to admire the rich plant life like you say than watch some performers.” He replied vaguely, running his fingers through messy silver locks. 

“I’m telling you, Dylan, dear brother, that you may find yourself enjoying this more than you’d think.” 

“Ah, yes, why don’t I just go get ‘on terms’ with one of La Sorelli’s friends? Then I can join your debauched little group.” 

Philippe burst out laughing. He was not a man who was so easily embarrassed. It would take more than that to test his brother’s patience. The count returned his gaze to the heavy velvet curtains that concealed the main stage, a cheerful grin spreading across his face. 

“I am merely saying that you could befriend humans as well as you do flowers and plants if you tried.” 

“Noted.” 

Suddenly, the entire room hushed and fell silent as the lights dimmed and the curtains slowly rose. The cast of Romeo and Juliet took their places before the audience. As they began the act with graceful movements and soft music from the orchestra pit, the Comte turned to whisper to his brother. 

But the young man’s intelligent gray eyes were suddenly shining with wonder, fixed intently on one of the lead dancers, his lips parted slightly in awe. Following his gaze, the count quickly realized that it was _not_ the opera’s supercilious diva, La Belladonna. 

She was a lovely red-haired girl, looking to be in her early twenties. She could be any other girl on the streets of Ardhalis, but there were a few distinguishing details that set her apart. He could see her glimmering golden eyes from where he was sitting, they had a thoughtful look to them... _pensive_ was the word. 

She wore a slight smile as she sang with the most alluring, enchanting voice he had ever heard. And his little brother, the boy who Philippe would have thought more likely to fall in love with a plant than a woman, was gazing at the singer as if she was a rare, exotic flower. Which was, to say in terms of said viscount, his Aphrodite. 

But there was something else clouding the young man’s face, some sort of wistful longing, a sadness that tainted his reverent expression. 

Deciding not to bring the boy out of his reverie, the count leaned back in his seat and smiled slightly. 

This should be interesting. 

\--- 

_She thinks I’ve been dead for the past four years._

The last scene of Faust had concluded the night’s performances, with the young soprano having nearly stumbled from the shock of an unexpected standing ovation. She had been escorted to her dressing room, which was his current destination. Dylan moved through the hallways of the opera house, dawdling every few seconds to further contemplate his dilemma. Shifting his weight from one foot to another, he threaded his way through the groups of people roaming the halls. 

Finally, he arrived upon the singer’s door, nervously tugging at the seams of his gloves with trembling fingers. A crowd was gathered along him in waiting for the soprano—and Dylan hesitantly walked up to the door, quickly dismissing the others as he entered. 

The girl was resting atop her sofa, holding a glass of water. When she saw Dylan, a look of confused concentration appeared. As if she were trying to place him in her mind, recall her possible encounters with this seemingly familiar man. 

He noticed her questioning gaze and hurried to introduce himself, although hesitant to reveal his true identity. 

“My lady... I am the—the brother of one of La Sorelli’s ‘companions.’” Kneeling on the carpeted floor, he took her hand and kissed it in a show of polite greeting. 

She cocked her head, an interested curiosity replacing the bafflement. 

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Monsieur...?” 

He dithered for another short while, considering his decision and what kind of outcome each choice would bring. Finally, he decided to be honest with her. He’d already learned that lies could get one only so far. 

“Ren... it’s me. Dylan.” 

Her eyes widened with horrified recognition, her golden gaze roaming over his face. 

“What? That’s impossible. Dylan died four years ago...” she breathed shakily, looking as if she could faint. Stabs of guilt pierced him as he stood there in the dressing-room of his childhood friend. 

“But I’m not lying, am I, Ren?” He ventured softly, carefully gauging her reaction. 

She slowly shook her head, disbelief still contorting her features as she surveyed him. The friend who she’d thought she lost four years ago, the cause of her extended pain. 

“ _Why_ are you here? _How_ are you here?” She demanded, her voice still pitching unevenly as she confronted him. He could hear his heart flutter uneasily against the inside of his chest like a trapped bird as he pondered his reply. 

“I suppose I would have to say that I survived the station bombing, to put it simply.” 

She scoffed haughtily, set her glass on the vanity table, and got to her feet. Smoothing the skirt of her dress, she rose to a seemingly statuesque height. 

“Fine! You did survive, but why didn’t I find out about it? That little letter I got—it told me you were dead! I spent four years in a state of _hell_ because I thought you were gone!” She exclaimed angrily, moving quickly across the carpeted floor so that she stood directly in front of the startled man. 

His eyes darted back and forth between hers, and his throat tightened as he noticed a new emotion. There was an aching look misting her eyes, something that called out to him. 

_I missed you._

However, this sympathy was not yet enough to surpass her rage. 

“I-I’m sorry, Ren! I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t have a choice!” The young man demurred, raising his hands defensively against her evident fury. 

He had his reasons. He could explain to her where he’d been, why he’d lost touch. But he also knew that now was not the time. It could put them both in danger. Besides, the rising panic within him was reason enough to erase his thoughts and logic. 

Lauren opened her mouth as if to continue her mad rant, but suddenly she paused. A peculiar look came over her face, and her eyes darted cautiously over the walls before assuming a passive expression. 

“I’m not going to have this conversation with you tonight, Dylan. Please leave me alone, I’m exhausted...” The fight seemed to drain out of her as she waved him out the door. Once it closed behind him, he let out the breath he had been holding. 

Dylan stayed a bit longer, debating whether to ask to see her again or to take his leave. But suddenly he heard a rumbling voice coming from beyond the door—an unmistakably masculine sound. 

“ _Bonne soirée, mon amour._ I must say, that was a lovely performance you gave tonight, who taught you?” 

He cocked his ear and listened intently for her answer— 

“You did, subordinate. But you _promised_ it wouldn’t go to your head— “ 

This led to a few long minutes of wildly energetic banter, and Dylan was starting to lose interest when the man’s voice asked, 

“Tired?” 

“Definitely, but it was worth it to hear myself sing like that again tonight. For the first time in a while, I’ve satisfied myself with my work.” 

“Have you now?” The voice sounded amused, but there was a tone of endearment and affection lying just underneath the surface of his words, hidden carefully so that she would not detect it. 

Suddenly, the voice soured with a subtle note of jealousy. Perhaps she could not hear it, but Dylan did. 

“Who was that in here earlier? Dylan, you called him?” 

He did not realize until later that his breathing had stopped once more, and even his heart seemed to lean forward in his chest to press its ear to the door in anticipation. A short silence fell before Lauren’s taut response graced the walls and all listening nearby. 

“He’s the friend I told you about. He isn’t dead after all.” 

Lauren had been talking to a mysterious man about him? 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were disappointed that he’s still alive.” The voice chuckled darkly, sending a chill through Dylan’s lungs. 

“You know I’m not, how can you even _suggest_ —” 

“Oh, calm down, _mon amour,_ you know I’m joking!” 

The two voices returned to their bickering, sounding almost a thing of natural occurrence between them. Dylan quickly tuned it out, and soon silence filled the air once more. 

When the abrupt turn of a doorknob disturbed the eavesdropper, he immediately scrambled to hide, and no sooner than he had managed to conceal himself did Lauren vacate her room, passing his hiding place and disappear down the hall, leaving the door slightly ajar. 

Dylan should have left then and there. But his curiosity sent him walking into the room, only to be greeted by emptiness. No presence stirred the air, but he spent a few more minutes to carefully inspect the dressing-room, to no avail. 

_I must be hearing things._

Doubtfully, he headed back towards the open door. Standing within the frame, he warily scanned the room one last time. 

“If someone is there, show yourself!” He called, half-hoping for the man’s voice that he already assumed was a figment of his imagination. Of course, no one responded, and he finally left the room, shutting the door behind him. 

He set off down the hall and descended the wide marble stairs, only to be met with another odd phenomenon: a group of men carrying a covered stretcher. The white cover was stained near the top by dark red splotches, and as he moved out of the stretcher’s way, he inquired: 

“Who is that?” 

And one of the men replied: 

“This here is young Harvey Wood, found dead with a damn vicious cut on his throat and a bloodied hyacinth in his mouth, not unlike a quill in its ink. Just the stem that’s red too; just like a writing-tool.” 

“Nay, it’s like the straw of a drink!” Another man chimed in, eliciting a few quiet chuckles from the group. 

“Whatever it looks like, he was a good kid. Well liked. Poor thing—he was hanging in front of a few farm scenes backstage when we found him. Ironic, if you ask me, he was head scene-shifter.” 

Dylan took off his hat, acknowledging the boy hidden within the stretcher. Then he continued on his way, and the men on theirs. 

_He never noticed how the blood continued to darken the white sheet, even after wary gazes had passed over it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEY ALL LIVED CAPRISUN-DLY EVER AFTER, THE END.
> 
> Just kidding.
> 
> I hope you guys liked the new chapter!! Kieran has finally made his disembodied entrance--sorry for that, Kiki. I'll make sure to showcase your inhuman beauty in the next chapter. (Or not, I'm the boss here.)
> 
> Dylan:  
> Me(or Lauren, whatever): HE'S BAAACK!!
> 
> The Comte Philippe Rosenthal is actually the Comte Philippe de Chagny, and La Sorelli is also a POTO canon character. I mean, I would've replaced them with minor characters from PH, but... I guess I got lazy (I'M SORRY) ;)))) If you want, you can replace them in your minds as they'll pop up here and there every so often.
> 
> If you have any questions about what the notes at the top were referencing(or about the fic overall), feel free to ask me in the comments! I'll try and answer them without being too spoiler-y(?) (And again, please refrain from revealing spoilers related to POTO canon, for the sake of potential readers)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, I'm currently waiting to pounce on a copy of POTO that isn't snagged from the library, so there may be a future dwindle (low possibility but still possible. And NO, I do NOT mean I stole the book by saying 'snagged').
> 
> -Love, June


	3. Cold Unease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unsettling feeling of distress has never had a warmth in its touch.

After Dylan’s presence had faded completely from the room, Kieran left his hiding place. Lingering within Lauren’s now empty quarters, he stayed there awhile, left alone with his thoughts. 

While he mused over the appearance of the mysterious silver-haired man, he absently brushed the surface of the vanity table. His long pianist fingers met the polished wood a few more times before he paused. 

_There was a gala in the opera house tonight._

He recalled the reason for the occasion, Tristan Polienne’s retirement. Frowning slightly at the thought of the two new managers, he considered visiting the gala.

It didn’t take him long to make his decision, and quietly he slipped out the door. 

* 

The halls leading to his destination were nearly empty, with only a few stragglers loitering in the darker corners. No one took any notice of him, and the short trip from the dressing-room to the gala would’ve been uneventful had he not passed a group of men carrying a covered stretcher. 

No words were exchanged, but in that brief moment Kieran’s eyes caught a pale purple hue lingering among the bright red bloodstains. Momentarily caught off guard, he stared after the tainted white of the sheet cover, something ice-cold worming through his insides. 

Subconsciously he shivered, then shook his head to try and clear his swirling thoughts. Finally, when he had managed to calm himself, he took a deep breath and descended the stairs to the party. 

* 

The celebration was in the foyer, and the guests were abuzz with Lauren Sinclair’s triumphant performance from earlier that evening. Kieran passed aimlessly through the sprawling rooms of which the lobby consisted. A grimly amused smile played on his lips. The fact that nobody realized the infamous Opera Ghost himself walked through their ranks was almost _laughable._

Anyone who had heard of the Opera Ardhalis would undoubtedly also have learned of the resident ghost. The wild tales that were spun about the spectral patron of the theater always made for interesting conversation. 

As far as the rumors went, he supposedly had a skeletal frame and a death’s head. He snorted at the mere thought. The only rumor that was anywhere close to the truth was about his mysterious appearances and disappearances. But anyone could do it, really, if they knew the opera house as well as he did. 

He weaved around the groups of people milling about the foyer, nothing more than a shade walking among the living. 

La Sorelli’s speech concluded just as he’d slipped into the room unnoticed. Knowing Tristan, he would most likely stay awhile to bid his farewells to this crowd. Then the upstairs foyer, located near the manager’s office, would be graced with his presence one final time. 

After skirting a large group, he finally spotted the retiring manager by his lonesome. The champagne flute in his hand sparkled cheerfully as he turned and spotted Kieran. 

“My dear boy. I see you couldn’t resist the free food and drinks.” 

Smoothly plucking a glass from a passing waiter’s tray, Kieran grinned. 

“ **Of course, that’s the only reason I’m here, really,** ” he joked as he took a sip. Tristan chuckled and mirrored the action, his brown eyes twinkling. 

“Care to join me for dinner in the upstairs foyer?” He offered, gently swirling his glass. 

“I don’t see why not.” He replied. When they had finished their drinks, Kieran waited for Tristan to address the crowd for the last time before accompanying him out the doors. 

As their footsteps clattered against the smooth white staircase, Kieran saw the ghost of a vision. The covered white stretcher seemed to reappear before his eyes, taunting him. This time, he was able to oppress his creeping suspicion. 

They reached the upstairs foyer and found the new managers lounging with drinks in their hands, talking amicably with a cluster of people. Or rather, one of them spoke amicably while the other was quietly brooding. When they saw Tristan, they waved away the others and stood to greet their predecessor. 

“ _Bonne soiree,_ _monsieurs!_ ” March greeted them. Hermann only nodded in acknowledgement as the four men exchanged handshakes. 

“Congratulations!” Tristan enthused, a pleased smile never leaving his face. Patting Kieran’s shoulder, he introduced the two managers. 

“Kieran, these are the new managers of Opera Ardhalis. MeetMonsieurs Hughes Hermann and Oliver March. Gentlemen, this is Kieran, one of my good friends.” 

As the three businessmen delved into a long chat, Kieran began to feel restless. 

Fortunately, supper was just about to begin, and he followed Tristan over to the large dinner table. Tristan insisted that Kieran sit beside him, and he kept quiet company beside the group. 

While he was eating, he overheard two men deep in discussion a few seats away. 

“Did you hear? Harvey Wood is dead!” 

“Ah... poor lad.” 

The cold was back. For the third time he tried to ignore the uneasiness crawling under his skin as he choked down his food. But there was nothing he could do to stop himself from hearing their words. 

“No one knows who might’ve killed him. Nobody had any grudges against him, far as I remember. He was well liked by everybody.” 

Their voices faded to barely distinguishable whispers, and Kieran could hear no more. Swallowing his distress along with his dinner, he returned his focus to the managers’ conversation. 

“How did you enjoy the performance?” 

“I’d say it went spectacularly. Mademoiselle Lauren Sinclair did incredibly in the role of Marguerite!” 

“Ah, yes, you see, she usually plays Siebel but tonight...” 

Kieran hid a small smile at the mention of Lauren, the mere sound of her name warmed over the frost that had settled in his stomach. 

* 

The dinner was uneventful but quite pleasant, and Kieran soon said his goodbyes to Tristan before seeming to vanish. 

After Kieran had left, Tristan turned back to his successors. 

“Gentlemen, I have something I must tell you.” With that, he led them into the manager’s office and closed the door. 

“As you may already be aware, the Opera Ardhalis hosts a number of unusual apparitions. However, one of them you must watch out for carefully. It is _the Opera Ghost._ ” 

Contradictory to his serious tone, the two men did not seem to believe him. 

“Of course we’ve heard of the Opera Ghost, but he’s not real!” 

“Indeed, he may exist, but not as a ghost! Ghosts are things of children’s stories, surely you don’t expect us to believe that!” 

Tristan only sighed. The two of them had much to learn about the opera house. He pulled up a chair and sat, reaching for a sheet of paper. 

Jotting down a few short sentences, he then proceeded to explain to the pair the workings of the residential spirits in the Opera Ardhalis. 

“You see, there are a few remarkable beings in the opera house, which you now have under your management. But the ghost is the most... _peculiar_.” 

“Peculiar? What do you mean?” 

“He has been here since some of my earlier days as a manager, and I have come to know him as a very secretive person. There are a few rules that you must follow if you wish to avoid his wrath.” 

With that, he handed the written list to Hermann. March leaned over his partner’s shoulder and the two of them fell silent as their eyes skimmed across the paper. 

“’ _Box No. 5 will be reserved for the Ghost and the Ghost only during performances.’ ‘The Ghost must be paid his monthly allowance of_ _20,000 pence'?_ This is all he wants?” 

Tristan nodded, and the two men burst out laughing. Even Hermann, who was usually coiled tersely with stiff-backed arrogance, had to fight for breath. 

After they had regained their composure; Hermann cocked his head curiously. 

“Why not just have him arrested when he comes to the box? That’s what I’d do if I had some ghostly wretch hanging around my workplace.” 

Tristan frowned slightly and leaned forward to whisper to the two. 

“No one has ever seen him in the box.” 

Hermann and March doubled over laughing again. Of course, they did not find it funny, but the simple fact that one could say something so absurd with such an impressive neutral expression was. 

“This is no laughing matter, but I have done my part; I have warned you. I have seen to it that you learn of the rules, so if you fail to heed them, the consequences shall be yours to bear.” Tristan shook his head ruefully at the pair sitting before him before rising to walk to the door. 

“Good luck, gentlemen. I sincerely hope that you will stay on good terms with the ghost.” 

* 

After Tristan had left, a young man ran in through the door, panting. 

“Harvey Wood is dead, sirs!” 

“Who?” The managers chorused, twin tones of surprise and anxiety. 

“Harvey Wood, sirs, the head scene-shifter! Dead, with a slit throat and hanging in front of some farm scenes!” 

“Do you know who killed him?” 

“No, sirs, but some people are saying it was suicide!” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Quite sure. Not completely sure, but quite!” 

“Thank you for that kind update, young sir.” 

“Of course, _monsieurs!_ ” 

The boy scurried out of the office, and the two men looked at each other. March broke the silence with a hesitant voice. 

“That seems... unusual. It’s also rather unsettling, considering such an accident occurred on our first night as managers.” He pushed off from where he had been leaning on Hermann’s shoulder to stroke his short beard thoughtfully. 

“Sure, the man could’ve been suicidal, but there’s still a suspicious chance that it was murder. People don’t just die like that. No one who wished to die would go to such extremes, would they?” He mused. 

Another short silence fell before Hermann scoffed. 

“You’ve read too many murder mystery novels. Your bookshelves are filled with them. We can leave this to the police, I think.” 

March shrugged half-heartedly. 

“I suppose we could.” 

“So what’s done is done! Let’s call it a night, tomorrow it’ll be our first official day working here.” 

“Agreed.” 

Still, the aftermath of a death does not go away so easily. The two men’s bodies were bunched tightly with tension after the office was plunged into darkness. 

* 

The police investigated the case. They came to the conclusion that Harvey Wood was simply suicidal. 

* 

After a few short weeks, the two managers had forgotten all about Harvey Wood, the Opera Ghost, and those peculiar rules. Then one day they found a letter waiting for them. 

Nobody knew who it was from. The managers opened the letter and, like they had a few days ago, they huddled together to read it at the same time. It went something like this: 

_Good day, managers!_

_Please pardon this intrusion upon your busy schedules, I am sure there are many things to take care of as managers. However, I would not have written to you if there hadn’t been any problems._

_So far, there has only been one major issue that, admittedly has been a great bother. I have noticed that you sold my private box not o_ _nce, but numerous times these past weeks_ _. At first, I thought that perhaps your predecessor, Monsieur T. Polienne, had simply forgotten to inform you of my rules._

_Unfortunately, I was disappointed when I found out that you already knew of the rules. To disregard my rules has consequences, monsieurs._

_Yours truly,_

_Opera Ghost_

The silence that followed was broken by Hermann slamming his fist down on the desk. 

“This little joke of Monsieur Polienne’s has gone on long enough! It’s starting to become irritating!” He shouted. “There is no ‘Opera Ghost’!” 

March, however, seemed intrigued. 

“This could perhaps be our predecessor’s way of saying that he would like to have Box 5 reserved for him.” 

His partner grunted and tossed the letter back onto the desk. 

“If we get another letter, I swear to _god_ —” 

“There’s a performance tonight, we can invite him to watch from Box 5, as he wishes!” March cut off his co-manager, effectively quieting whatever words would’ve come out of Hermann’s mouth. 

* 

That night, the two managers watched the performances without remembering to glance at Box 5. If they had, they would’ve noticed that it was completely and utterly vacant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marguerite and Siebel are characters from the play Faust, which is performed in POTO canon ;)  
> Marguerite means daisy, fitting, don't you think?
> 
> Me writing the young man who told Hermarch of Harvey's death: "Harvey Wood is dead, sirs!" "What! Do you know who killed him?"  
> Me: ...ah yes, "MASTER HAS GIVEN DOBBY A SOCK" and "Hermarch Potter!" *laughs insanely* 
> 
> Yes, the young man was inspired by Dobby the house-elf. If you ever go back for a reread of this chapter make sure to use a squeaky voice to read his lines XD
> 
> Me, writing the color of Harvey's blood: Hmm bright red=arteries dark red=veins  
> Me: I see  
> Me: Hey mom how deep are the arteries on a person's neck?  
> My mom: I don't think they're that deep, there's only so much room in your neck
> 
> What I learned from this exchange: The frequency of my weird-ass questions that I ask my mom
> 
> I apologize profusely for taking so long on this chapter, I will try my best to write faster TvT  
> Have I forgotten anything...?  
> -Love, June


	4. Deceptive Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A behind the scenes on the scene-shifter's death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, y'all. This is where I kill Harvey. This is where is picks up from the line in the last chapter: "They came to the conclusion that Harvey Wood was simply suicidal."
> 
> You have been warned ;D

Harvey Wood was not suicidal. 

No, most certainly not. 

His death had been _almost purely coincidental,_ as the most horrid things often are, an unwelcome stroke of misfortune to those who lurk in the dark.

*

_The night of the murder, shortly after the performances_

Harvey sighed. It had been a long day of running around backstage, making sure that everything ran smoothly for the managers’ night. The teams working behind the scenes had done their part well. 

Other than the absence of the Opera’s star singer, La Belladonna, there had not been a single slip. But that was something for the performers to worry about. Nothing that he had to pay much mind to, being head scene-shifter. 

The performances had just ended, and at this time he was usually resting. However, tonight’s shifts had gone on longer than usual, and as soon as they were released, he had found himself wandering through the sets. 

“Excellent job tonight, son. You’re free to go, now.” The voice of a senior backstage worker drifted through his mind.

“ _Merci,_ **but there are some props I have to go find for tomorrow’s performances.** _Bonne nuit, et a demain, monsieur!_ ” 

Unfortunately for Harvey, he would have to venture into the darkest parts of the building to find those props. The frightening prospect of wandering the dark opera house alone was no help whatsoever. 

Holding a small oil lamp, he shuddered at the shadows dancing and leaping around his light. Wondering if any little demons were flitting around him, his eyes flicked from one shadow to another warily.

It wasn’t impossible for one to encounter some fantastical apparitions in this place. There had been people who’d witnessed tiny, hunched creatures playing with fire. They were usually said to be sighted near the outskirts of the ground floor, where people scarcely went. Many who had yet to see these miniature goblins presumed they were rats. 

Harvey only hoped he wouldn’t come across either. Or anything worse, for that matter. He had heard of the ghost, how could he have not? Even people who had never set foot in the Opera Ardhalis knew of him. 

Continuing through the darkness with tremulous steps, he squinted into the black haze, beginning to make out the shapes of various props. Colors on sets swiftly appeared and faded under the roving lamplight. 

The layer of dust coating the floor muffled his footsteps, but they echoed still, causing Harvey to imagine a second set of feet trailing him. 

“No, Harvey. That’s silly.” 

He tried to reassure himself that he was alone. 

Finally, after wandering for another long while, he came upon a dead end with a few farm sets propped up against the wall. He was observing the scenes when something unusual caught his eye. 

_In between the two sets, there was a rope, twisted into a loop._

The second his eyes fell on the noose; Harvey’s blood ran cold. His already pale skin blanched, as he realized that the eerie gap of the coil seemed to be framing his face exactly. 

His mind instantly conjured terrifying images of some distorted head gazing at him from the noose. For a moment, he could’ve sworn he saw a pair of glowing eyes.

Harvey blinked and the illusion disappeared, but somehow the emptiness was even more frightful. He began quaking uncontrollably, taking a step backwards to return to the brightly lit halls. 

He never did make it. Because that was when a flash of silver ripped through his throat, drawing a broken fragment of a scream from his lips. 

His very last breath blew a sigh across the blood that splattered the dust. 

*

_The night of the murder, midway through the last act_

Belladonna Davenport was the top singer of the Opera Ardhalis. She was a wild rose painted in soft pinks, curved petals and bloody thorns. 

_(Belladonna Davenport was one of the Phantom Scythe’s best assassins.)_

Most nights, she shone onstage, wearing flowing gowns and sparkling jewels. Reveling in the warm glow of the spotlight, she basked in the attention from the crowd. 

_(Other nights, she glided silently through shadows, relishing the choking cries of those who fell victim to her poisoned blades. Most often, the golden viper venom.)_

Tonight was not most nights. She huffed in frustration as she threw on a cloak, the hem falling around her knees. Donning the hood, she left the dressing-room of her alter ego before quickly melding to the shadows. She hated having to miss out on an important performance, and even less enthusiastic about the fact that she’d had to watch Lauren Sinclair take her place.

_(Her mission tonight was to tarnish a reputation with blood. Usually, she would have completed the assignment within a day of receiving it. However, this particular task bothered her. Of course giving up the spotlight was one of the reasons, but...)_

_The girl used to sing like a dying bird,_ Belladonna mused. _But she’s improved, judging by her performance tonight. Wonder if Kieran’s been teaching her._

  
  


She frowned slightly at the thought, before dismissing it with a quick toss of her head. Even if he was teaching the new soprano, who cared?

_(The pink-haired assassin scoffed at how quickly people’s opinions could change. When Lauren Sinclair had joined the Opera Ardhalis months ago, her singing had been heavily criticized. Admittedly, Belladonna had also taken part in the mocking, and now it was turning on her. People were beginning to think that Lauren would best her and become the new star. She supposed that a small, selfish part of her did care, then.)_

It wasn’t as if there was any love lost between them, they’d never been more than colleagues. It was likely the closest term to describe their tense relationship.

_(The last few times she had witnessed him showed her just how much happier he was these days, always running off somewhere with the Sinclair girl. Blissfully unaware that tonight, the Opera Ghost would receive the blame of a death. A shade of concern draped itself over her mind for a short while before she pushed it away.)_

  
  


She streaked through the opera house stealthily, flitting from shadow to shadow until she noticed small orange sparks from satanic fires. The little demons liked to linger near the trapdoors, sometimes causing harmless flames for them to play with.

_(Demons didn’t care for people. They remained indifferent to the humans that wandered through their kingdom of various trapdoors and passages. Or, at least until they were provoked in some way._

_They did not mind Belladonna either, turning a blind eye on whatever poor soul fell to her blades and venoms.)_

Tonight, the tiny fires registered in her grapefruit eyes as bright orange flecks as she arrived in the darker wings of the opera house. She slowed her pace and passed a pair of the devilish little creatures.

They barely glanced up at her as flames licked at their clawed hands, cackling with mischief. She, in turn, paid no attention to them and glided past.

When she spotted a familiar noose peering at her from the darkness, she tensed, flicking her eyes back and forth between the dark shapes surrounding it. Careful not to disturb any of the stage paraphernalia, she wove between the farm sets nearby.

Brushing the coarse rope as she went, she settled into a pocket of darkness that concealed her amongst the sets. Oh, she knew how few people wandered into this abandoned wing. But she was still in a sour mood. 

“That little Sinclair girl... thinks she can just steal my glory...”

Belladonna muttered, drawing a knife. Her eyes filled with distaste as she regarded the simplicity of it. The black hilt, the sterile blade that held not a single trace of venom in its killing bite.

Bitter spite welled up inside her, and the knife splintered the old floorboards next to her legs. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt such resentment, and she welcomed it as she would an old friend. 

Some levelheaded part of her, the calculated calmness that made up her honeyed façade, told her to proceed with her task. 

However, she repressed her sense of duty and allowed herself to stew in her darker emotions. The performances were likely in full swing by then, and she wasn’t the one who would shine on the stage. No, she was curled pathetically into the corners, sulking petulantly. 

“Tch...”

Belladonna finally rose from the floor. She was just about to return to the main halls when she sensed a human presence nearby. The sound of dully thudding footsteps fell on her ears, as well as a low mumble: “No, Harvey... that’s silly.” 

Soon, a dimly flickering lamp bobbed into view, gradually passing in front of her. Silently sliding out from behind the sets, she slowly crept up behind him. Knife readily in hand, waiting, like a viper coiling before it struck.

She watched as her victim was rendered motionless by the sight of the noose. Drawing closer, she lifted her arm in an almost lazy fashion. The light from his lamp leaped over his shoulder to gently illuminate her blade. 

In a matter of seconds, he turned--and she pushed the knife forward, the metal gliding across his exposed throat. A nonchalant cold spread through her as the man swayed on his feet.

The hem of her cloak fluttered as she sheathed her weapon. Eyes filled with disdain, she briskly turned her head to watch his body crumple to the floor.

His body was found hanging from the noose by one of his colleagues. By the time the corpse was discovered, blood was already pooling in his mouth. 

_A lone purple hyacinth rested between his open lips._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. I'm coming to you from my new laptop, which I got as a birthday present two days ago (technical difficulties kept me from updating on my actual birthday, so close XD)
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed this filler chapter. If you're confused by how much I'm jumping around between various situations and perspectives, it's okay. That is (almost) exactly what is supposed to happen. It'll make sense as the story progresses :"D  
> I just HAD to include Caprisun Harvey, he's an icon XD And those farm sets he was hanging in between... *cough* Farmer Kiki *cough* I can never unsee it *cough* thanks a lot, ph discord :"D *cough*
> 
> Personally, Bella was my favorite part to write during this chapter, I had fun injecting her with some insecurity and spite XD Which, admittedly mirrored my darker moods.
> 
> ...but Harvey?? YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I WAS LAUGHING WHILE WRITING HIM  
> On my first draft, I wrote the first line, "Harvey Wood was not suicidal." And then I wrote, "he wasn't even dead."  
> So now he is an undead human drink (which is what the chapter title almost was LOL) 
> 
> I had a really fun time writing this, caprisun week was awesome XD Cinnamon-roll flavored caprisuns to you all <3  
> Cheers!!  
> -Love, June


	5. Box Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the managers call in Madame Ladell, Kym's mother and keeper of Box 5, to find out more about the ghost's box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case of any misunderstanding, Madame Ladell is Kym's mother. (I'll use 'mademoiselle' or 'miss' for Kym herself when she makes her appearance a few chapters later)

“Another one! _Another goddamn letter--!_ ” Hermann snarled, flinging open the door to the office. The hinges squealed in surprise as they spun, followed by a loud smack when the knob hit the wall. His co-manager looked up abruptly from his desk, eyes immediately zeroing in on the black envelope clutched in his partner’s hand. 

March had opened his mouth to speak when Hermann flung the letter onto the tabletop. It elicited a small breeze, causing stacks of files nearby to flutter under their paperweights.

“Go on! Read it to me--I’d like to see what ‘the ghost’ is telling us now! Is he asking us for another private box? Was he _displeased_ about something? Did he write to us, telling us that he’ll murder another one of our staff?” He was infuriated, his eyes bulging out of their sockets and drops of saliva flying from his mouth.

Without context, the situation likely appeared amusing, but March knew the reason for Hermann’s anger all too well.

Dutifully ignoring the wild rant, he wiped down the spittle from the desktop before reaching to open the letter. For a while, the only thing that could be heard in the office was Hermann’s huffing breaths. Then--

“No.” March sounded surprised as he finished reading.

“What do you mean--?” 

“No, he is not asking us for any of those things. Quite the contrary, actually. He’s written to tell us that he thoroughly enjoyed the performance last night!” March reported, turning the letter’s contents towards the red-faced man. 

Hermann frowned and snatched the letter back, scanning it with knit brows. 

“I don’t--”

Just then, a timid knock came from the doorway. Both men looked up and saw a young man with his fist poised to knock again, eyes darting from one manager to the other. 

“ _Bonjour, monsieurs!_ ”

“ _Bonjou--is that another letter?”_ Hermann bellowed, and the young man faltered momentarily, face paling and pupils dilating in fear. Before the older man could react, he darted into the office, hastily deposited the new letter on the desk, and left. 

His co-manager attempted to conceal his smile as he opened the second letter. 

“I daresay, you may want to improve your… _intimidating_ air, for the sake of our terrified staff.”

“I have never terrorized anyone. You must be mistaking me for Kym Ladell. I swear, the girl is some--some sort of _watermelon demon!_ ”

This time, March could not suppress his laughter at his partner's indignation, but also made sure to reprimand the rudeness that came with it. 

“You’re absolutely correct--she does seem to have an unusually strong passion for the fruit. However, you would do well to mind your manners. She is a promising young woman, much more than a ‘watermelon demon’, as you so politely called her. She is also friendlier than you are, Hughes. Perhaps you could learn a thing or two.” 

Finally, March returned his attention to the letter. 

“Ah--it’s a letter from Monsieur Polienne.”

“What does it say?”

“‘Although the idea of visiting the opera to watch the performances appeals to me, I could not dare occupy the ghost’s box. Nobody can, and no one must. Apologies for declining your thoughtful offer of Box No. 5.’ That seems to be the general summary.”

Hermann scoffed, beginning to pace the office, clearly frustrated. 

“That’s it--we are going to sell the box again! And when the ghost becomes tired of sending us empty threats, he will leave us alone.”

March got to his feet, shaking his head. 

“You aren’t thinking clearly, Hughes--what if they are not just ‘empty threats’? Monsieur Polienne already informed us that he personally knew of the ghost’s existence, and we do not yet know how much influence he has in the opera house.”

“You speak as though the ghost is real!” Hermann retorted, his frown deepening. 

“But what if he is? I’m telling you, M. Polienne is a sensible man. It would not be reasonable for him to continue this joke, when we clearly do not think it funny!” March pointed out.

They continued to toss suggestions and protests, debating the possible outcomes of selling the box. The matter was settled only when Hermann pointed out that doing so would sate March’s thirst for mysterious happenings and their conclusions.

\---

The next morning, the managers hurried through the halls of the opera house. Rays of sunlight that streamed in from the large windows flashed across their suits periodically as they headed towards the office. 

Hermann was the first to enter, eager to see if any more of the ‘ _goddamn letters_ ’ had arrived. Unfortunately, there most certainly was a new deliverance. However, it was not so much a letter as a notice, sitting almost _tauntingly_ upon the desk. 

The manager turned an unflattering shade of purple and unleashed a barely suppressed growl of fury. Witnessing this, March followed him into the office to view the notice. 

“It’s from the inspector...?” 

According to the notice, ushers had been called in the night before to expel a group, from none other than Box Five. They had caused a ruckus during the performances, receiving several warnings from the inspector and eventually being led out. 

“‘--the box-keeper told me that they were saying some peculiar things…’ something about a _ghost--?!_ ”

“Now calm _down_ , Hughes--” 

Of course, he did not calm down. Instead, he ran out to the hallway, shouting madly for the box-keeper. March sighed in exasperation, but soon followed his partner. This seemed to be an excellent opportunity to live like one of his murder mystery novels, after all. 

\---

Soon, Madame Ladell was sitting in the office. As the one responsible for waiting on Box Five, the managers were hoping to get some answers out of her. 

“Thank you for meeting with us today, _madame,_ ” March smiled politely and she relaxed, if only a small amount. “We would like to hear from you the events that occurred in Box Five last night. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

Smoothing out the small wrinkles in her worn grey skirt, she began to speak.

“Well, I was lingering by the entrance to the box, like always. Everything seemed to be going perfectly well, until the people in the box started laughing, not long after the performances had started. And once more, during the second act.”

Hermann held up his hand, interrupting her explanation. 

“But whatever were they laughing _at?_ ”

Madame Ladell’s eyes widened, and she leaned in towards them, as if she was about to share with them a secret. 

“When the group entered the box, they came right back out again, some of them laughing. One woman asked me if there was someone else in the box. I answered that there was not. Then she told me, ‘There was a voice, telling us that the box was occupied!’”

If the managers had heard this story weeks ago, when they had still believed the ghost to be some clever trick, they would surely have laughed themselves. But they had long since found themselves unamused by the ‘joke’.

“And was there anyone in the box?” March inquired. Both men seemed to be expecting--and dreading--a mention of the ghost. 

“No. There was nobody to be seen.” 

Hermann’s lip curled unpleasantly, and he grabbed the notice. He shoved the paper so close to the box-keeper’s face that she had to back away to read it properly. 

“It seems to me that you told the inspector that the owner of the disembodied voice was the _ghost._ ”

“Well, _yes--_ ”

March had to intervene, quickly putting himself between Madame Ladell and his red-faced co-manager.

“How do you know the ghost exists? Have you seen him?” 

She shook her head, stray blue strands of hair swaying at the movement. 

“No one has ever seen the ghost in his box. But I hear him all the time, you see. He comes during the first act, knocks thrice against the door. When I first noticed this, I was quite bewildered. There was no one there--who could’ve made those three little taps?--then, a soft voice murmured: ‘ _Bonjour, Madame Ladell, it is I, the Opera Ghost._ ’” 

Hermann snorted, still highly skeptical, but his partner questioned if there had been anyone in the neighboring boxes. 

“ _Non, monsieur_ , there was no one in those boxes either.” 

She proceeded to explain to them about her encounters of the ghost. According to her, the ghost paid her small, inconsistent allowances. The money would be tucked into the program she left out for him. He would bring her gifts, flowers and occasionally her favorite sweets. 

“Does the ghost seem to fancy you, or is it just I who supposes so?” March mused, a baffled look making its home on his features.

At this, she shook her head quite vigorously.

“Oh, _heavens, no!_ The ghost says that he is deeply enamoured with another--her identity has yet to be revealed to me, or anyone else, as far as I know--and he speaks of her _so very fondly_.”

The managers kept her late into the day, further interrogating her nearly as thoroughly as a professional detective would. After having learned about the ghost’s relationship with their predecessor and how they coexisted among the opera’s halls, she could not tell them any more.

“Very well, _madame,_ you may go. Thank you for your cooperation.” March concluded, and relief shone in her eyes. The three of them were all quite exhausted from the endless questioning, leaving no time for rest. 

Then with a polite dip of her head, Madame Ladell was off, her skirts swishing out of the office in a soft flurry of grey. The door quietly clicked shut behind her, and Hermann’s small outburst instantaneously followed it. 

“Bah! The ghost is giving me a headache! Everything he is involved in, the box, the opera, it is simply _too much_ ,” he exclaimed, stalking over to his desk and slumping into the chair. 

“We’ve learned some more about him, however. Perhaps we could use this knowledge somewhere down the road.” March consoled him, but today his gentle reassurance had no effect.

“We should take care of this ourselves.” Hermann declared grimly, staring down at his desk, at the notice still spread on the surface. The letters on the page leered back wordlessly, scrawled across the paper in blue pencil.

\---

_The next day, Box Five was sold, with a new keeper in place._

_Madame Ladell was nowhere to be seen in the opera house that day._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's passing through town again, y'all. Since I took quite a while, I'm offering recompense--you get 2 chapters ;D See you in the next one, ladies and gents.


	6. Dame de la lune, ne pleure pas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the moon rises a few times and no lighthearted people are on our streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you see '*' play [The Music of the Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=77umP7IRxD4%C2%A0rel=%22nofollow%22) by [Andrew Lloyd Webber](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCnVSzQ6rME82AzW1ctGcO_g%C2%A0rel=%22nofollow%22)

After her first taste of success, Lauren Sinclair immediately continued her triumphant streak. Having reclaimed the life in her voice, she threw herself into several passionate performances, her singing returned to an object of excellency and sweet beauty.

Even when she was not placed in the leading role, her eyes shone with joy and she sang with ardor. To the oblivious ones, she seemed to have completely forgotten the murder of Harvey Wood.

However, she had not been able to expel nagging thoughts of him from her, nor could she ignore her childhood friend’s presence within her mind. Finding herself sitting at her vanity with letter paper, she tapped her cheek with the end of her feathered quill.

“Hmm…” she muttered as the inked tip of the pen swirled a haphazard doodle on the edge of the envelope tucked underhand. Releasing a frustrated groan, she stabbed the quill back into its holder. 

The letter was meant to contact Dylan, perhaps discuss the complications of their situation. But her mind felt empty, the paper bereft of words. 

She had been tracing the drying ink of her doodle, leaving a faint black half-moon on her fingertip. All of a sudden her senses alerted her to a presence, something just beyond her left shoulder.

Lauren quickly tucked the letter away in her vanity drawer before turning to face the dark-haired demon who had just entered. 

“ _Mon fantôme,”_ she acknowledged. As if drawn to her, he was across the room in three long strides and wrapping her in his arms. She was taken by surprise. Kieran always tried to get close--a playful kiss on her cheek, stroking her hair--but today he seemed… _sad,_ somehow. “Is something wrong, Kieran?” She asked, gently returning the embrace. He slumped against her and gave a weak smile, something almost close to a grimace.

“ **I’m fine, darling.** **Just a little tired.** ”

Clearly having detected the lie, her lips twitched into a frown as she surveyed his features. Deciding that he was not as well as he claimed to be, she led him over to her velvet chaise and handed him a glass of water.

As he lifted the glass to his lips, she took a seat beside him with a concerned expression.

“Are we still on for tonight? We can skip, if you’re feeling--”

He cut her off with a shake of his head, stubborn strands of hair falling into his eyes. Finishing the water, he cleared his throat and reached over to tap her nose.

“Is someone _worried_ about me?” He quipped, bringing a little color back into his cheeks. Immediately Lauren rolled her eyes and scoffed, swatting his hand away.

“No,” she drawled, stretching out the syllables of the word in a snarky manner. “I’m just worried that I won’t improve. You _are_ my mentor, whether I like it or not.” 

A smug smirk appeared on Kieran’s face at these words, but she ignored it along with the urge to slap it off his stupidly handsome face.

“I may be able to make it to tonight’s meeting, but not tomorrow. I’m visiting my father’s grave in Greychapel.” The inky black mark on her fingertip faded as she rubbed the stitching of the chaise.

“I see… why don’t I come with you?” 

His question had her head snapping up to shoot him a bewildered look.

“Wha--why would you want to accompany me? You didn’t even know my father.”

Kieran hummed nonchalantly, eventually settling for a shrug of his shoulders. 

“Well, I want to meet him. We could practice there--I’m sure your father would be delighted to hear his daughter’s voice again.”

“I speak to him every time I visit.”

“No, no, not like that. I meant singing. He must’ve taught you before I came along, hm?”

He watched as her face went slack with shock, the faintest shade of rose flickering across her cheeks.

“Well, yes. Fine, come along then, I don’t care,” she muttered, crossing her arms and looking annoyed that she had reacted in such a flustered manner, one that did not suit her usual personality.

Inside, she was quite touched by the fact that this man was willing to help her regain her passion and skill, and had offered to accompany her to her father’s grave to celebrate her gifts with the spirits.

\---

Later that evening, when the stars were playfully chasing away the last remnants of twilight, Lauren left her dressing room to head to the roof. The emptiness of the halls were cold, but to her it just seemed satisfyingly cool and refreshing, the quiet peace soothing.

Her heels clicked decisively against the marble floors as she made her way to the west side of the opera house. The hem of her gown swished lightly around her legs when she began her ascent up the stairs.

Murmuring melodies under her breath, she stole a glance out the window at the still-darkening sky. It seemed like a clear night, the white specks of stars glinting from a velvet black. The perfect time for singing. 

When she reached the end of her path and walked out onto the rooftop, Kieran was waiting for her. His back was turned, and his hair fluttered in the evening breeze.

“ _Mon élève bien-aimé."_ The teasing nickname left his lips in amused admission, addressing her before their eyes met. 

“ _Mon subordonné,_ ” she rebutted, lifting her skirts to step over one of the ledges.

He spun to face her, blue eyes shining through his shadow. Sliding down gracefully from the raised edge of the roof, he approached her. This time, he did not wrap his arms around her in desperation. He only stood there with a boyish grin on his cheeks, turned apple-red from the autumn chill.

Lauren rolled her eyes, and stepped past him to climb up on the moonlit eaves. Clearing her throat, she hummed a few notes aloud. Behind her, she heard Kieran’s low, rumbling timbre join in. 

A few notes turned into a melody that she recognized, and gently her lips parted to sing.

_**{*Play 'The Music of the Night' by Andrew Lloyd Webber}** _

_“Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation,_

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination_

_Silently, the senses abandon their defenses_

_Helpless to resist the notes we write_

_For we compose the music of the night.”_

She found Kieran’s arms sliding around her waist to take her hands in his, fingers gliding just high enough to remain chaste. The warmth of their fingers met through the layers of their gloves, and he slowly led her along the narrow ledge. Picking up the lines where she’d dropped off, he sang in response:

_“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor_

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender_

_Hearing is believing, music is deceiving_

_Hard as lightning, soft as candlelight_

_Dare you trust the music of the night?”_

When she only stared back at him with frustration glimmering in her eyes, he mouthed the next words to her. With a grateful nod, she closed her eyes and focused on the lyrics running through her mind. 

_“Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth_

_And the truth isn’t what you want to see_

_In the dark it is easy to pretend_

_That the truth is what it ought to be.”_

They danced through the night, with Kieran occasionally reminding his muse what to sing next. If someone chanced a look above the gleaming windows of the opera house, under the stars, they would’ve seen the rumoured entity _La Lune._

The Phantom, clad in black, his mysterious lady, her pale skirts swirling around their legs as the pair sang the music of the night, hauntingly beautiful tunes that enticed any who so chose to stay with the world of the waking.

Pegasus and Poetry watched them tirelessly night after night, standing sentinel with their divine expressions. 

And when the moon had traveled to the other end of the sky, they, too, retired to the slant between them and the rest of the slumbering city. 

Laying back upon the cold tiles, Lune stared up at the velvet night sky, slightly out of breath and creating clouds of fog on the wind. Their elbows brushed with the tiniest of movements, a quiet appreciation filling the comfortable silence.

“You did well. That was a newer song, I’m pleasantly surprised that you remembered as much as you did.” Kieran’s voice warmed her ear, much more lighthearted than earlier. She tipped her head in acknowledgement, recognizing the praise that always came with her achievements but choosing to remain modest.

“I practiced, didn’t I? I know you were listening, but don’t you think I could do better in that time?”

“Only you’ll know for sure. I can’t tell you how good I think you sound. After all, what you’re really looking to find is your own approval.” He turned his head so that his turquoise eyes could search hers. “Isn’t it?”

She emitted a small sigh, a sudden shiver ran through her body and she looked away, uncomfortable under his intense gaze. 

“Mm. Anyway, you said you wanted to come with me?” Lauren could tell he was skeptical of the sudden change of topic, but knowing him, he would not pry.

“Yes. Why, did you change your mind, darling?” A little smirk crawled up his cheeks in the dark.

“No--never mind it. Let’s get back inside, it’s starting to get colder.” 

The conversation drew to an end as they parted, he to his lair and she to her chambers.

\---

  
  


The next morning was grey. The sky reminded Vicomte Dylan Rosenthal of several days that he’d prefer not to remember. 

He was not feeling well, and could only pace a groove into the wooden boards of the train platforms. After several hours and missed trains, he headed away from the rails.

Padding up the stairs of his brother’s home to the guest room, he decided to take a nap. The feeling of the bed underneath him came as a small relief. These blankets were soft, they did not crush his body. They were light, they would not suffocate him. They were comforting, did not smell of burning metal and death. 

Against his will, he recalled the day of his death.

\---

_The streets whipped past his eyes as he tried to force himself to go faster. Beside him, he could hear the huffing breaths of his father, and felt the bleeding stump of the Comte’s missing finger when he grabbed his hand._

_“Come on, son. We can make it, we’ll be safe.”_

_He only gave a quick nod. His father had chanted this over and over like a mantra while they were fleeing through the city. But he was only a child, he could not deny the fear rushing through his veins. Whimpers slipped from his mouth each time he heard footsteps that weren’t his own or his father’s._

_Screams rang through neighboring alleys, the sound bounced around his brain maddeningly. His heart was quivering in terror, the adrenaline of being chased like prey was too much._

_They were running the knife’s edge, trying to escape the shadow’s grasp._

_Shouts sounded from somewhere nearby, as well as the pounding of feet against damp stones. Dylan wanted to give in to the exertion of his frantic limbs, stop and allow the paralysis to freeze him. Even so, he kept going._

_The station was close now. He could see the glass dome of the building in the distance and tried to force more speed into his flight._

_“We’re nearly there…” His father hissed in between ragged breaths, also having noticed the [signal of their getaway car]. The two of them rushed into the great terminal, passing below the large bronze plaque named Allendale._

_As they sprinted past the various vendors, Dylan stole a glance at where the flowers always were. In his early childhood, he would visit this very station to look at the plants that fascinated him so._

_But today, his view of the flowers was blocked by a strange man he had never seen before. The man was wearing a dark coat, a scarf, and there was an astrakhan cap pressed onto his head. A lit cigar was held between his teeth, smoking at the tip. He looked normal, sans the hat. However, the real shock came when he lifted his head and met Dylan’s eyes._

_The man had an ugly gash decorating the left side of his face, and two differently coloured eyes bore him down._ Heterochromia iridis, _he thought before moving on. The sight of that man chilled him to the bone, but he pushed thoughts of the stranger out of his mind._

_All that mattered now was whether or not they made their escape._

_Meanwhile, the man in the astrakhan cap was watching the time as well. His eyes followed the hands of the large clock standing in the station._

_10:24_

_Dylan felt the alarm in his gut begin to subside. He and his father were going to be safe. Everything was going to be just fine._

_10:25_

_The man was still standing in front of the vendor, idly plucking hyacinth buds from its stem. He twitched his teeth and the cigar swayed, white smoke flowing from the corners of his mouth._

_10:26_

_The stranger checked the clock before slowly turning his gaze to father and son, waiting in agitation._

_10:27_

_When Dylan looked back at the flower vendor, the stranger was gone. But his attention was quickly pulled back in front, a train had appeared in the distance, moving towards the station._

_10:28_

_His eyes watched the cigar’s sparks leap to the end of a thin fuse, following the hissing light as it traveled along the rope. Once it had burned through about a foot, he got up and quickly left with his coat flapping, hailing the waiting car. Working with explosives didn’t always leave room for an elegant, leisurely exit._

_“Sake.”_

_Exchanging curt nods with the driver, they sped away from the station towards the marked rendezvous point. They would swoop in like vultures after the inferno had passed, and take care of any survivors stumbling out from the smoke._

_10:29_

_The train was pulling into the station. Soon the doors were opening right before their eyes. Dylan was overcome with relief and joy. Safety was one step away. His father seemed to relax marginally as well, and they waited for the departing crowd to move past--_

_NOV. 13 XX17_

_10:30_

_\---_

Dylan woke up in panic. His sweat felt like ice on his skin, and his eyes were stretched open so widely that it hurt. A look out the window told him that the sun was beginning to set. 

Trying to compose himself, he rolled out of the bed and went to dress. 

Fifteen minutes later he was pacing the station again, pupils dilated in fear. He glanced at the flower vendors, and nearly ran for his life when he saw a dark coat. However, it was not the same man as it had been, and the vicomte attempted to calm himself. 

This time, he did not allow his guard to slip, he would only breathe his sighs of relief when he was far away from any train stations that could bring him back to death’s door.

“The 6:30 evening train will depart now. All passengers headed to Greychapel…”

He handed his ticket to the conductor with shaking hands and did not look at anyone until his compartment door had closed tightly. As the train pulled away and scenery began flying past his window, he pressed his back to the wall and kept an iron grip on the gun that he’d sneaked onboard.

\---

Meanwhile, Lune had already arrived via the morning train. The pair spent the entire day holed up in the single room they’d gotten at the Lonely Traveler’s Inn.

Kieran was not meant to be seen by anyone. If the Opera Ghost was discovered, especially in a rougher town like Greychapel, he would most likely be hunted down and exorcised. His captors would certainly try, although the title ‘Ghost’ was simply a pseudonym to the human, Kieran White.

Currently, both members of Lune were discussing a topic that had exhausted the minds and mouths of many Opera patrons: the latest murder--on a list of countless crossed names.

“I heard that they found him just after the performances ended--right when the gala was starting. Where were you?”

Lauren had been dying to find out more, tired of distracting herself from the mystery’s newest piece.

“I left your room when it was empty, I wanted to go to the gala to see M. Tristan. I actually saw the body being carried out of the building. It was covered, but there was some blood on the sheet.”

Doing a bit of digging on both their parts, they found no unusual records on Harvey and met a dead-end conclusion that he was simply a random victim. But Lauren was certain there was more to the case and insisted on investigating. 

They both knew it was not the Purple Hyacinth’s doing. He had abandoned the position, seeking redemption, but sadly had not managed to completely free himself from the shadows.

“I see… but he seems unrelated to _them_.”

His stony expression yielded nothing. 

“Well, that’s how the Phantom Scythe is, _mon amour._ They’re a never-ending maze of shadows that cuts off the dead ends.”

\---

After falling in and out of sleep, Lauren headed out at dusk. Kieran trailed her, hidden from the naked eye. They made it to the lobby of the inn without any trouble, but the second a silver-haired man stepped in, everything froze. 

But no one was more shaken than Kieran. Watching from beyond a veil of invisible darkness, his eyes slitted into shards of ice as he bore witness to the exchange.

“So. You’re here.” She was trying to be cold. Both men knew her well enough to sense it. 

“Here I am, Ren,” he replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. 

Her eye twitched.

“I can’t say I’m surprised, Vicomte.” Realizing that Kieran was well within the vicinity, she tried to choose her words carefully. 

Dylan, however, did not know this. His poor, addled mind was about to lay all his vulnerabilities bare in front of not only his childhood friend, but also the one who sought her heart. 

“Oh, no? How did you know, then, that you would see me here?” 

Lauren bit her lip, the letter that she’d finished and sent without her phantom’s knowing was nagging at the back of her head. 

“I… it was obvious.” She tried for an excuse, earning a skeptical scoff. 

“I’ll let that one go. You were rather good at playing detective when we were children.” The vicomte relented, ruffling his silvery locks. “But there’s plenty else that I cannot just _let go_ of, Ren.”

“...is that so?”

“Indeed. That night I came into your dressing-room, was that the first time you had seen me since my return?”

She searched her memory and nodded to him. The corners of his grey eyes crinkled in a dissatisfied manner, as if he had been anticipating more. 

“Alright, but what man was hiding in the room that night?” He jutted his chin at her, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“ _Pardonnez-moi, monsieur?_ What man are you speaking of?” Lauren’s voice shrilled with excited panic at his insinuation. 

“Why, the one whom you were talking to after I had gone--”

“So you were listening behind the door?” She accused angrily, eyes flashing at him.

He could not reply without admitting the ill-mannered deed that he had committed. So he just stared helplessly at her, half-hoping she would read his eyes and answer for him. 

Irritation sparked from her as she spoke over his thoughts. 

“Well, what did you hear?”

“I’ve already told you as much--a man’s voice!”

“And what, pray tell, did he say?” 

“He was asking you how you were. I did not hear the next parts of the conversation, for it was mostly composed of jesting remarks--but then you told him about me!”

At that, Lauren blanched, her eyes rounding at him. 

“What? I--”

“You sounded quite disappointed to have encountered me that night, Ren. I wonder why?”

With that, he turned and sped out the doors of the inn. 

Behind his curtain, Kieran snorted, thinking the vicomte was mistaking himself to be in the role of a distressed, melodramatic hero. Lauren frowned in concern for her friend, discreetly swatting the air where she assumed her subordinate was. 

“I’ve upset him, this isn’t funny,” she murmured sadly. Catching the gazes of others passing through the lobby, she hurriedly crossed the room and left using the doors that Dylan had gone through. 

Kieran trailed her as if he was her shadow, but she turned on him, some unnamed emotion glowing behind her eyes. 

“Don’t follow me.”

When he lifted the veil so she could see his expression, she only sighed and looked away.

“Just… leave me alone for a while. I don’t want you to tail me, invisible or otherwise.”

His brows furrowed in sorrowful confusion, and soon he was gone. 

\---

The snow lay on the ground peacefully, shining quietly underneath the moonlight. A silhouette of a man sat upon the hills overlooking the icy, dark sea on one side and Greychapel’s cemetery on the other. In a corner of the graveyard, a lone mausoleum loomed, casting several headstones into shadow.

Dylan wondered if there was a spirit inside the crypt, soon to wake from its slumber and play with the korrigans.

_“Korrigans are tiny, winged spirits. They love dancing, and you can see them near water. Like streams, seas and even fountains. If you encounter one, they might tell you your future. But there are also stories about how they are condemned souls of lives past, borne from tragic deaths.”_

_“What happens if they find you first?”_

_“Well, I’m not sure, my little songbird. I’ve only seen some from afar, although I heard about a man who had his fortune told by one before disappearing somewhere at sea.”_

_“I wonder why he disappeared? Ren, what do you think? Come on, use that detective brain of yours!”_

_“Ha ha, well how about you? Why don’t you go find some korrigans with me and see if they take us away to their underwater palace?”_

He remembered Monsieur Sinclair’s many stories, mostly folklore, and how he and Lauren came to this very spot as dusk fell to look for korrigans. 

What they had not been told at that age was that the mischievous fairies were also carnal, immoral creatures. Killing after seducing. 

Mindlessly, his fingers drew shapes in the snow, the cold flakes melting against his skin and turning him colder still. His friend suddenly reminded him of a korrigan, baiting his heart before flitting out of reach. 

A sigh left his bluish lips. He knew that Lauren would never become a temptress, it just wasn’t in her nature. Or perhaps it was, after all, he had not seen nor heard from her in a very long time. 

“People change,” he muttered to himself, his numb hands pressing through the snow and feeling the frozen grass below.

“And have _you_ changed?”

Lauren was standing behind him, the hem of her coat dampened from trekking through the snowdrifts. 

“If I have, I cannot feel it. But I have definitely sensed something distinct about you.”

“Yes,” she replied simply. “We are not children anymore. I can see the korrigans no longer, however, I have found different kinds of spirits.”

Her expression begged him to ask of her what sprites those were, and so he did. Immediately after, her golden eyes lit up and she leaned closer.

“Do you remember all of Father’s stories, the ones about the Angel of Music?” His nod encouraged her to continue. “Well, ah… an _incredibly similar_ apparition reached out to me just a year ago… and he has been teaching me.”

The vicomte shook his head incredulously.

“Are you implying that the _Angel of Music_ is the voice I heard in your chambers that night?”

“Yes.” She pursed her lips slightly, tilting her head to better regard him. “You sound unconvinced, mon ami.”

Quickly he stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I… well, to be frank, I am. It’s just a bit difficult to believe!” He exclaimed, seeing her offended frown. “You said it yourself that we are not children anymore--that we don’t believe in stories or spirits!”

A disappointed sigh escaped her lips, creating a small cloud that hung in the air between them. 

“I see how it is… neither of you understand,” she whispered, then turned away to return to the inn. Soon he was left there by his lonesome once more, standing in blankness.

\---

As Lauren had left him a while ago with nothing but his own bitterness to stew over, Kieran was incredibly bored and upset. Pacing the inn did not cease his restlessness, so he wandered over to the town bar.

_The Grim Goblin,_ he read from the creaking sign as he walked in. 

Immediately, the smell of strong alcohol hit his nose. The scene he had happened upon was quite the spitting image of what one expected a bar to be--noisy and spirited. He removed his illusionary disguise slowly and carefully, so that he did not alarm anyone by suddenly appearing out of thin air. 

Watching a group of drunks from across the room, he fetched himself a drink. The pleasant burn of the liquor seared his throat and left a warm feeling in his gut. When he raised the mug to his lips for the fifth time, the sharp sound of a woman’s heels cut through the alcoholic buzz. 

He glanced up to see a head of rose-colored hair at the bar, the intrigued glow of Belladonna’s eyes sending a small jolt of surprise down his spine. He hadn’t expected to see her here.

When she met his gaze, a curiosity flashed across her features. Hopping down from the bar seat gracefully, she sauntered over, drink in hand. 

“Mister P.H. Or if you prefer… _former_ Hyacinth.”

He couldn’t even attempt to force a frown onto his face. He just didn’t care quite enough… was what he wanted her to think.

“ _Vipère. Et le plaisir est tout à moi."_

_Viper. And the pleasure is all mine._

_“Es-tu ivre?”_

_Are you drunk?_

_“Non, je ne pense pas.”_

_No, I don’t think so._

_“Est-ce que je peux?”_

_Do you mind?_

_“Non.”_

She slid in beside him at a respectful distance, and lifted her drink to drain it.

“You seem to be warming up to alcohol more than usual.”

“Do I now?” 

She gave a tired little chuckle, setting the empty glass on the table. But she sent for more drinks not a minute later, quickly reaching for one the second they arrived.

Kieran just watched, brows raised. He’d never seen the assassin like this--she was always in top form and limited herself to a certain amount of alcohol even on bad days.

“Yes, how are things at the Opera?”

“Busy. Very… busy.” 

\---

_“Mademoiselle Sinclair was positively amazing in last night’s performance!”_

_“Yes, yes, I don’t know why they didn’t give her more singing roles before! She’s quite a lovely singer. Almost as good as Ms. Davenport, if not better!”_

_“You know, La Belladonna will have to step up her game if she wants that spotlight back, oui?”_

_The last comment made her wish she had killed this vagrant instead of that young scene-shifter. She hurried away to her dressing room, breaking the skin of her lip with her teeth._

_But she could not find relief in her sanctuary today, because when she stepped into the room there was another familiar-looking file envelope sitting on her desk, with the leering face of the Scythe emblem stamped into the corner._

_Just looking at the thing made her feel nauseous. Snatching up the envelope, she tore the top and skimmed the contents, eyes flying across the page in a terrified hurry._

_As she read the last words, a group of people passing outside had the misfortune to say ‘Sinclair’. Belladonna was at the door in seconds and wrenched it open, fixing the group with her grapefruit-colored gaze._

_“Pardonnez-moi, pouvez-vous répéter cela, s'il vous plaît?” She asked, sickly sweet as usual, if not for the slightly wild look in her wide eyes._

_Pardon me, could you repeat that, please?_

_“Ah, nothing! Non, we were just talking about--eh, our cousin Sinclair! Oui, mes amis?”_

_A chorus of nervous ‘oui’s’ murmured around the group before they scurried off._

_Shutting the door tightly, she tossed some clothes and money in a bag and left the opera house. Her rage boiled everywhere in her body, burning her clear thoughts and making her skin hot to the touch._

_The train swept her away to Greychapel, she knew the alleys there and had plenty of bars and old flames in said town. Back in Ardhalis, the people would only know that she and Lauren were absent, resting._

_The Grim Goblin welcomed her with loud swells of noise. It was everywhere, coming from men that came to drink away their lives, gamblers who had nothing left to lose, and the occasional shatter of glass or chants among the drunkards._

_She in turn welcomed the harsh cacophony and headed straight to the bar. Just as she received her drink, she turned her head and caught two turquoise jewels staring her down._

_\---_

“Have you been teaching the Sinclair brat?” The diva mused, swilling her nth glass of whiskey. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a frown on Kieran’s face, his eyebrows pulling together in disapproval. 

“I don’t know. Did it seem to you that I was?”

“Oh Kieran… don’t play coy. That’s my game, and you were always a terrible liar.” 

Her high tolerance of alcohol was quite impressive. Kieran was convinced that she’d had almost as many glasses as the drunks put together, and yet she remembered everything perfectly and had not shown any signs of euphoria or confusion. 

Flicking a stray lock of hair that had drifted downwards, he set down his glass, worried he would become intoxicated just from watching a person consume Bella’s amount of alcohol. 

“You know, things are horribly exhausting back at the opera. The Scythe keeps calling on me when I’m trying to practice for my performances.”

He could not hold back his smirk at that moment, and chuckled quietly. “Really now. Are you jealous of Lauren?”

“I am the opera’s best-known singer and an infamous diva, Kieran. I don’t get jealous.”

“And yet you’re here, drinking away your envy and frustrations.”

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped, then groaned as a short headache burst through her head. “No, I… it must be nice outside the Scythe, hm?”

He considered it. Yes, his Scythe days were far from over, yet they were. He was outside it while his shadow remained tied to the darkness. 

“It’s complicated,” he admitted. Quickly, he turned the subject back to her, not wanting to give away more than he intended. “It sounds to me that you want out as well. Have I started a ‘Quit the Scythe’ trend?” 

Belladonna did not seem to understand that it was truly a joke, and instead got to her feet, stumbling slightly. 

“I would do well to doubt that.”

She left, leaving him more questions unanswered.

However, Kieran White was not usually one to ignore his curiosities. Soon, the doors of the bar swung shut behind his retreating figure.

\---

The moonlight remained shining down on the light layer of snow upon the ground, and Lauren’s shoes stepped through it with a soothing repetition of soft crunches. She cleared her throat and took a few deep breaths, inhaling the crisp winter air.

There was no need to sing tonight, but she felt compelled to do so, and thus pulled the music of the night from her memory.

_“Softly, deftly, music shall caress you_

_Hear it, feel it secretly possess you_

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind_

_In this darkness I know I cannot fight_

_The darkness of the music of the night.”_

Her features crinkled. The words she was singing did not soothe her, did not warm her heart in the cold. 

Falling into quiet once more, she made her way past the hills and down to the graveyard.

The edges of her dark, woolen cloak brushed over headstones as she threaded in between them, moving towards the towering shadow of the mausoleum. Her father’s grave greeted her beside the large structure, weathered stone reading _Alexander Sinclair._

“Kieran.” 

The silence was broken by her hushed murmur, and the responding hum issued out of thin air. 

“Have you found it?”

Another low hum.

She nodded and gently raised her hands to the sky, as if reaching for the clouds. 

Then slowly, gradually, a melody began to drift on the winds.

Lauren recognized it as _The Resurrection of Lazarus._ Her father had played this many times for her and Dylan, and it was on his very violin that the song was coming from now. Relishing the sound, her eyes fluttered shut to allow her other senses to heighten. 

But this did not alert her to the sound of Vicomte Dylan Rosenthal’s quiet gasp somewhere behind her, nor did she see Kieran’s eyes gleaming from the darkness of the mausoleum’s walls.

_And throughout the night the music played, until the very moment when his eyes shone once again._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... we have a lot to unpack in this chapter... 
> 
> First off: We got some Lune action!!! Now, in PoHH, Lune is a little different, as you already know--they are a mysterious duet that sings at night from the roof of the opera house. They do something similar to canon!Lune on the side, which you'll see as we go along.  
> The hardest part about that scene (and pretty much 90% of this chapter)? The research T-T. I had to look up overhead views and a few layouts of Palais Garnier (or Opera de Paris; which our Opera Ardhalis is based off of). Lauren and Kieran are dancing on one of these narrow raised ledges on the roof, and for those of you wondering about 'Pegasus and Poetry', they are two of the statues placed upon the roof. You can see it on the satellite mode of Google Maps, or click [here](https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FPalais_Garnier&psig=AOvVaw2aNySQBJuo5bz87ewpqW5F&ust=1609562441763000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CAIQjRxqFwoTCIDZwr71-e0CFQAAAAAdAAAAABAD) to see one of the images I found (It'll bring you to a Wikipedia page, and you'll have to scroll down a bit).  
> (And also pretend Greychapel is much farther away from Ardhalis than on the canon map :"D)
> 
> Korrigans are creatures from old Breton legends, according to POTO. 'Daddy Daae', our late Mr. Sinclair used to tell Breton folk stories to Lauren and Dylan. The Bretons are a 'Celtic ethnic group' that reside in Brittany, France. 
> 
> I think that covers some of the background explanations, but if you have additional questions, feel free to ask!
> 
> So, double update (before I get busy with school again in a few days), Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to you all--let's have a good 2021!! <3  
> -Love, June


End file.
